The Nightgown Blossoming
by April in Paris
Summary: On the eve on her momentous birthday, Amy tries to calm her nerves by sewing something special. Will Sheldon appreciate her work? Will he even notice? CANON
1. The Bud

**On the eve on her momentous birthday, Amy tries to calm her nerves by sewing something special. Will Sheldon appreciate her work? Will he even notice?**

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**THE NIGHTGOWN BLOSSOMING**  
**Part One: The Bud**

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It was unlikely she would sleep, what with her mind racing and her loins still faintly burning from the waxing. She could not stop thinking of tomorrow, not just a birthday but the day she'd waited for her entire adult life. Amy glanced at the clock as she poured a glass of water. At this exact time tomorrow evening, it was entirely possible that - the water went down her throat with a particularly large gulp - Sheldon Cooper would be on top of her. Inside of her. First, she took a deep breath and then another drink. Or, perhaps, if she played her cards right, she'd already be deflowered. Penny and Bernadette had done their best to alternately distract her and downplay the event and encourage her all evening, but still her world was spinning.

Finishing the water, Amy stood indecisive in her kitchen for a moment. But there was nothing else to be done this evening. It was past her bedtime. She turned off the kitchen light and proceeded to the bathroom to prepare for bed. If she couldn't sleep, then she'd sit up and read in bed, the dark room lit by only the small, slight glow of her clip-on reading lamp. Usually, after a chapter or two, sleep would come. Tonight, she hoped, would be no different.

She tried not to think about how this was the last time she'd perform her nightly ablutions as a virgin. When she brushed her teeth, she tried not to imagine Sheldon's teeth gently hitting hers during an especially passionate kiss. As she brushed her hair, she tried not to imagine his fingers doing the same. She tried to ignore the way her clothes brushed against her skin as she removed them, raising goosebumps as she failed to not imagine the hush of fabric as removed by Sheldon's beautiful hands.

Crouching down, Amy opened a dresser drawer to get out a clean nightgown. Her hand hovered over her choices. All of her gowns were there, folded upright like soldiers to protect her from the night, as they had been ever since she'd read Marie Kondo's book a few months earlier. She grasped the first one, the feel of flannel familiar beneath her palm, and she frowned.

Amy made all of her own nightgowns. Sewing and other needlework had always provided her with a soothing hobby. Something to do with her hands, even as she worked through problems in her mind. It was so different from her scientific work that it felt like a welcome respite, a resetting of her mental processes. The math was simple and concrete, the sequence of events unchanging and sure. There were no unknown variables and only minor unexpected roadblocks like a snagged bobbin or a dropped stitch. It felt like a hypothesis and a conclusion all rolled effortlessly into one: Amy could visualize the finished product, know exactly what steps to take, and be certain of the outcome. Making nightgowns was a simple project, repeated every time using an old McCall's pattern. Every nightgown she had was structured the same; she'd made so many she didn't even have to consult the instructions anymore.

Except now they were all wrong, every single one of them. Amy's frown deepened as she pulled a blue plaid version over her head. Perhaps she should have taken Penny's suggestion when she marched her into Victoria's Secret after their waxing session. At first Amy was tempted to experience the stereotypical lingerie-wearing fantasy. But as her two blonde friends held up one flimsy, see-through item after another, her opinion shifted and her resolve strengthened. She would not go into her deflowering looking like anyone other than herself. In the end, she'd only bought a new pair of serviceable pink cotton underwear, although she'd agreed to bikini-style instead of her usual full briefs.

After years of angst and want and desire and self-doubt and long months of pain over a hasty and regrettable break-up, Sheldon Cooper wanted to be intimate with her. _Her_, Amy Farrah nightgown-wearing-Fowler. Sheldon loved her, for her intelligence and her modesty and other things that couldn't be squeezed into a red lace corset.

But he also loved her because she surprised him and challenged him. Because she presented new and fresh ways of seeing the world. At least she thought so. And none of Amy's long flannel gowns were new or fresh. It had been awhile since she'd made any. Even if they were, Sheldon had already seen her in them before, when she was sick or at their sleepover. If Sheldon was going to try something new for her, with her, the least she could do was wear a brand-new nightgown. It was an unread chapter in their lives, a fresh start, another beginning. She didn't want any reminder of the mundane times; she wanted something that later, when she saw it in her drawer, would only spark the joyous memory of a special night.

She looked at the clock. She was not going to sleep anyway. As she had done for years, she had taken her birthday off work to spend doing whatever she wanted to do. And right now, she wanted to sew a new nightgown. She didn't want to wait until the fabric store opened tomorrow; there was already too much tomorrow on which to wait. Her mind made up, she didn't want to waste another second. Amy grabbed her robe and wrapped it around herself as she went to the hallway closet where she stored her craft supplies. She pulled out and opened the large plastic tub at the bottom where she kept extra fabric. She tried to recall the clearance fabric she bought once as she rummaged through the box. Did she ever end up using it, perhaps for a quilt? Oh, yes! There it was, at the very bottom!

It was pale pink with tiny dark pink rosebuds connected by wispy vines. She liked the idea of a rosebud: a thing not yet opened, the promise of a bloom just waiting for the sun to kiss it and stroke it and warm it until it blossomed with excitement into being. She smiled at the metaphor, at the quiet scandal that was spring.

But when she pulled the folded fabric out, she sighed. It was not flannel, as she thought. It was a thin cotton percale. That's probably why she'd never made a nightgown with it; she was often chilled at night, and flannel was not just soft but also warm. Also, as it unfurled, she saw there was less than she remembered. Amy stretched her arms to estimate the yardage and realized it was not enough for a full gown. But it felt crisp and snappy, like it had been waiting with pent-up energy. Despite its years at the bottom of the fabric box, it even gave off a faint whiff of laundry detergent. She'd already washed it and preshrunk it, assuming at the time that she would use it soon, but for some reason she never had. This fabric was like her, waiting for its opening night.

That made the decision. So what if it were thin and cool? She would not be wearing it for long. So what if it was shorter than usual? By night's end, she would expose far more than her calves. Setting it aside, she dug around more until she located some white lacy floral trim; there were two different types, and she pulled them both out. Maybe she'd go wild and use both together. Maybe she'd add a little pizzazz by making the version with pintucking, too. If she were going to engage in premarital sex, she wanted to do it with flair.

Quickly now, she set about her tasks. She took out the heavy sewing machine, carrying it to living room for when she needed it. The thread box was sorted through for a coordinating shade of pink, and she choose a row of small shimmering buttons to march down the front. The old pattern envelope was collected and tucked under her arm. She cleared off the dining table, washed it clean, and dried it thoroughly. The fabric was stretched upon the surface, and Amy measured it using her long white tape.

She was certain it would be enough - just - but she picked up the pattern envelope to confirm. Yes, there was enough for the knee-length, cap-sleeved version. Of course, she'd never made that one before, but the basic construction looked the same. She pulled out and read the instructions to be certain. The pattern pieces, those beige filmy sheets, were carefully unfolded to avoid tearing them. Then, just as gently, Amy refolded upon the new line, the one that indicated the shorter length. The cap sleeve was a new piece she'd never used before.

Each piece of the pattern was arranged and pinned into place with precision, the middle of the back along the fold to give the gown the width it needed. Amy paused with her shears in her hand and smiled down. Almost every part of the fabric was covered, with very little unused. It was perfect; this fabric had always been destined for this moment. Without knowing it, her fabric box had always been her trousseau. Already the world was spinning less, her heart pounding less, her breath more sure. Already nervousness and anxiety were giving way to conviction. She would make her own unique version of a negligee, just as she and Sheldon had made their own version of love.

The percale cut beautifully, the edges very straight with no fraying; what little excess there was fell away gracefully, as though it knew it was being sacrificed for a greater whole. Gathering it in her hands, Amy felt moved to take an unprecedented step before she tossed it in the trash can. "Thank you," she whispered to the scraps.

Moving the pieces to the side, Amy set up the sewing machine at the edge of the table. First, she used the spool of thread to make her bobbin, and then she guided the thread from the top of the machine down through the levers and loops and at last through the eye of the needle. She removed the front corner of the machine to align the bobbin in its carriage and then carefully wound the wheel until the needle, plunging again and again into the hidden depths of the machine, caught it and pulled its partner up, up, up, into the light.

She knew the steps by heart. First, the pintucks: tiny little folds to rest along the top of her bosom. Dainty, demure, they would belie the thump-thump of her heart beneath them. The only clue would be the way they rode upon the heaving of her chest. The stitches were small, the pleats measured in the narrowest of increments. There was no room for error. Amy squinted and concentrated and held her breath as she stitched first one and then another and then another. Six little rows on each side. One for each year she'd known Sheldon. One for each year she loved him.

Satisfied, Amy exhaled loudly and relaxed. The hardest part was done. She was able to work with ease now, lining up the cut pieces, pinning the right sides together, guiding them under the foot and over the plate, carefully reversing at each end so they would not come apart again. Then each new, larger piece was cut free and she opened it like a book to inspect it, the inside now the outside, the two pieces now one, forever locked together with invisible threads.

In some places, after sewing, she tugged gently on the thread to gather the fabric, scrunching and sifting it, making sure each bunch was equidistance from another. Technically, a gather was a flaw, a forced pucker in the fabric. Something erratic and lumpy, unpredictable and bumpy. But, instead of fighting it, a seamstress welcomed it. She had learned that flaws were inevitable, that they could not be avoided, only massaged and smoothed into the whole. In fact, as the garment took shape, it was these very flaws that often gave it its shape, that allowed for movement and volume. A small gather across the yoke at the back, a reminder of the weight of love upon her shoulders. A longer gather in the front, beneath the pintucks, a reminder of the greater lightness of love upon her heart.

Amy measured out the placement of the button holes, indicating each with a faint chalk mark. She put on the buttonhole foot, reset to a zigzag and stitched down first one side, returned to the beginning, and did it again. Each buttonhole felt like starting over. Each buttonhole felt like a memory. Each buttonhole felt like both a mistake and the slate being wiped clean. Each buttonhole was forgiveness. By the time she reached the end of the placket, there was nothing left to forgive.

A sweetheart neckline, for the beautiful ache that had grown within her chest every day for years. Cap sleeves, like Juliet pining for true love upon a balcony. Knee-length hem, a reminder that love was a journey walked together. Thin white trim encircling her arms, a band of hope for a ring someday. Larger floral trim across the top, leftover from a previous nightgown, a reminder that although she would be changing, she was still the same. Amy sewed with hope and stitched with dreams.

At last, she flipped off the machine and stood, holding the nightgown in front of her. Amy smiled. Even gaping open, it was more than she imagined. And it wasn't even done. The last two steps, the last two thresholds for her to cross, would change it entirely. Only when these were complete would the gown be whole.

Moving to the sofa, she used the sharp spear of her seam ripper to open each buttonhole. The little harpoon tugged and cut. It was only a small prick, a brief but necessary pain. It was necessary to open oneself to the hurt to find oneself fulfilled. Amy licked the end of the thread to help tie the knot, and she sewed the first button in place by hand, her arm stretching out long as she pulled the thread behind her. At first it rotated, unsure of its place in this new experience, until she secured it. Only once she was certain it was set did she move on to the next.

After each button was secure, she closed it. Each piece searching for and finding its exact match, the only one that lined up perfectly with it. She slid each one through its corresponding slot, a straight movement at first until the fulcrum caught and then suddenly the thing was complete and the two were now incontrovertibly attached. Once they were unfastened, they would never be the same again. They had formed themselves to each other.

Her shoulders aching, she stood and rolled them back. Amy stretched toward the ceiling and lifted up on her toes. A yawn escaped; perhaps she'd manage to sleep a few hours, after all. Still standing, she inspected the finished nightgown for any stray threads, for any errors or flaws. There were none.

She smiled and set it down on the arm of the sofa only long enough to reorganize her supplies and return them to the closet. Then she took the gown into her bedroom and tried it on in front of her full-length mirror, biting her lip at what she saw. It was strange to see herself in a short nightgown with such small sleeves. The ambient lighting shone through it, and she could made out her dark silhouette under the fabric. Amy ran her palms down her sides, feeling crisp and clean. Sheldon would like that, surely. Following the contours of her hips, her breath sped up.

Would Sheldon touch her like that? Up past her ribs and her hands cupped her breasts, the cool air in the room raising her nipples like little marbles beneath her fingers. She bit her lip. Did it show too much? Did it conceal too much? Would Sheldon like it? Would he understand what every stitch had meant to her? Would he even notice?

Trembling slightly, she lowered her hands and studied her reflection. It was unusual for the task to which it was assigned, she knew that. Maybe it was a little too big, a little too old-fashioned, a little too functional over fashionable. But, then, so was she. The trembling stopped and she nodded firmly at what she saw. Amy Farrah nightgown-wearing-Fowler. Different yet the same. New yet familiar. Nervous yet sure.

Unique yet loved. For all her doubts, that was not one of them.

_To be continued . . ._

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**_Just like Amy's new nightgown, this story is comprised of two separate parts that are incontrovertibly linked, so much so that I couldn't decide how to present them. One long story? A serial tale? However, as the two pieces of the story are also forever locked together with invisible threads, it was decided to try something new and post them together. And so, if you are so moved, continue on . . ._**


	2. The Bloom

_**A note on the rating: I feel like this story is somewhere between a T and a M, knowing that M means different things to different people. But I'm playing it safe.**_

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**THE NIGHTGOWN BLOSSOMING**  
**Part Two: The Bloom**

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"This is different," Sheldon said, a finger reaching out to touch the white lace on her shoulder, clearly studying it. It was the first thing he said after they broke their passionate kiss. "It is new?"

"Yes," Amy replied, even as she contemplated his forehead the way he contemplated her nightgown. "I made it last night."

Here she was, at the pivotable moment, in her bed with Sheldon Cooper although they were both still wearing clothes. Less than their usual attire, of course, but dressed nonetheless.

"You made it?" His eyes met hers. "You sewed it yourself?" Amy nodded. "For tonight?"

"I wanted something new. Something special. For you," she explained.

Sheldon reached up to brush some hair out of her face. Oddly, it was the absence of her glasses and her usual barrette that made her feel exposed, not the flimsy nightgown. "But I don't care what you wear," he said.

"You don't?" Amy tried not to sound disappointed for all the work she put into the gown.

"I mean," Sheldon said in a rush, "I'd be here anyway . . . whatever you're wearing. Because you're the one I've - I've chosen to do this with. Your presence is not only desirable, but a necessity." Sheldon's hand brushed along the trim edging her décolletage, and Amy shivered at the heat of his fingers. "I like it. It's pretty."

Amy blushed at Sheldon's implied compliment. It was oblique, like so many of his were. It pleased her not only that he noticed the nightgown, but that he also approved. And found her desirable.

"I wanted to make it," she explained further. "I couldn't sleep last night and it calmed me to think about it, about all the parts that went into it. So I guess I made it for myself, too."

"Then I'm glad you did. You look happy in it."

Pulling the blankets away from them, he leaned forward to drop a small kiss on her shoulder, his hand brushing over her ribs. Amy shivered at the unexpected contact and then wondered how it could be unexpected on tonight of all nights.

"Thank you," she murmured.

His face popped up, an eyebrow raised. "For the kiss on your shoulder?"

"No. I mean - well, yes, I like that, you can kiss me anywhere - but what you said about my nightgown. I feel . . . happy in it."

Then Sheldon smiled softly and tilted his neck and kissed her even as he pulled her closer. His palm rested over the fabric at her waist, just the way she imagined it would. An unexpected advantage of the thin cotton was that she could feel everything through it.

"Ohhhhh," she exhaled as he kissed along her jawbone.

"Is this okay?" he whispered so close to her ear she felt the moisture from his breath, and the sensation almost shattered her. They were sliding down now, angling more than sitting up, and she wasn't sure how. Not that she minded.

"Yes."

And so, the nightgown gave them the direction they needed. Sheldon outlined its edges with his hands and his lips. His fingers trailed up the delicate skin along the inside of her arm before he followed the cap sleeve around. His palms sailed smooth over the curves, and Amy watched him trace along the vines down and then back up. Once he stopped to tap on a rosebud, all though another searing kiss. Neither of them spoke; Amy because she didn't know what to say, and, she supposed, Sheldon because he looked so serious and intent on his path. She watched him as he watched his hand, and she wondered what he was thinking. How could he be so calm at a moment like this? For ages she had longed for him to touch her in such a sustained manner, not even sexually although that was implied by their current situation, but just to feel his curiosity and desire to know her this well.

Having found his way back to the top of her gown, he toyed a bit with the pintucks before he slipped his hand lower, beneath the gathers, where he cupped her breast, causing her breath to hitch. It felt so much different than when she herself did it the night before.

"May I unbutton it?" he asked unexpectedly, looking at her even as he pressed closer. "It might, um, make this easier."

"Unbutton it?" Amy asked, wondering why it didn't occur to him to pull it over her head.

"Only if you want me to. If it's not too soon. I just thought . . ." He didn't finish. Before she could ask what he thought, Sheldon sat up and pulled his white tee shirt over his head. He folded it neatly and placed it on the bedside table, and, only then, did he turn back to her to her with a shrug as if that explained everything.

Amy shook her head. "It's not too soon."

She watched, transfixed, as her handsome shirtless boyfriend slowly opened every single one of those buttons, planting a kiss on each exposed inch of skin. He never wavered from his task or glanced at her; instead, he examined each new patch of skin before anoiting it with his lips. Only when he reached the end of the placket did he look up, his blue eyes resolute above the stretch of pale pink. Amy thought she saw a question in his gaze, so she nodded, giving him permission for whatever he had in mind next.

Sheldon gently pushed the two sides apart, exposing Amy's chest. She heard him gasp and pause, and she felt herself go hot with embarrassment and wished she hadn't. She always knew the nightgown would not cover her forever. And Sheldon had been a gentleman, exposing his chest first. Before she could formulate something to say, he started up again, the same kisses in reverse, although faster and more sloppy, some even with tiny moans, until his chest pressed with a soft weight into hers, the few wiry hairs teasing her nipples. Amy felt like she was liquifying beneath his touch, each little sound he made dissolving her fear.

Where had Sheldon found the courage, the desire to do this? Honestly, she had expected awkward, ineffectual foreplay. But he seemed so confident of himself, of his actions. And curious. And giving. She loved the feel of his body so close to hers, the heat bleeding easily through the fabric, the way his lips traveled along her skin. He wanted her. _Her_, Amy Farrah nightgown-wearing-Fowler. Sheldon Cooper loved her, and while that love was primarily the result of cerebral thought, here in this moment, something had changed.

Reaching eagerly for his face, Amy kissed him and held him close, not surprised by the eagerness with which he wrapped himself around her. In their embrace, between the louder moans they passed back and forth, Sheldon's arms found their way to her back, and he caressed the nightgown there, where he had not yet touched it, running his fingers along the gather at the yoke. She had thought it was the weight of love upon her shoulders when she sewed it, but now she thought it felt like she was growing wings, tenderly coaxed to the surface by Sheldon. The nightgown had changed them, just as she hoped. She came to this most momentous night bringing something new and special, something made with love and hope, and Sheldon had recognized and returned it.

When he pushed away and sat up, Amy's eyebrows dipped in confusion until he started to remove his underpants. She was torn between watching him and the urge to turn away, to give him privacy even at this late stage. His eyes didn't meet hers, and she knew that was surely a sign of embarrassment. But unable to help herself, she watched, shyly, from under her downcast eyes as the part of him that she'd felt pressing against her was revealed. She had not imagined Sheldon would be the first to completely denude himself.

There was a naked man in her bed. Amy knew what to expect, of course. In truth, she'd seen most of Sheldon's body at some point or another, and she'd spent many a lonely night compiling the bits into a whole in her head. But not his . . . she gulped. Sheldon seemed to be taking an overly long time folding something as simple as his underwear, still slightly turned away. Was he doing it on purpose, so she could peek? So peek she did. It was . . . it was . . . she gulped again.

Finally finished, Sheldon stretched out on the bed and rolled to face her. Amy snapped her eyes back to his face, wondering if he knew she'd been looking. But he didn't say anything. Instead, he reached for her hand and placed it flat against his shoulder. He closed his eyes when she made contact, despite the fact that they'd just been kissing. But that was different, and she knew it. Only occasionally during a mole check had Amy touched him like this, with such purpose. She remembered the first time, when Sheldon had taught her how to desensitize him first, to touch him somewhere on the edge of his body before she moved inward. Even then, he had never been naked; instead, he removed only the absolutely necessary clothing.

Amy spoke in understanding as he opened his eyes. "You'll tell me if I need to stop?"

"Yes, if you promise to do the same," he replied, gathering a bunch of her nightgown in his fist as she nodded her agreement.

And so, it was also the nightgown that belied the internal tremors beneath Sheldon's outward calm. His previous confidence was merely a disguise for the turmoil she discovered. It was one thing to know something and another to truly understand it. As he let her caress the planes of his body, it was the gown that gave her silent insight into his struggle. For so many years of her life she'd longed for someone to touch her like this; but for all of Sheldon's, he'd done everything he could to avoid being touched like this. It was why it had taken him so long to hug her. Now naked without a single element of protection, he was fully opening himself to her, allowing the special hurt to his hypersensitive nerves that only he understood.

Although he never once voiced an objection, his hand would tighten on the fabric he held, pulling it taut as he sucked in his breath. Amy would stop, not moving her hand away but not proceeding either, until the cloth was released with his soft exhale. Only then would she move further, the entire process repeating again. Meanwhile, he never stopped looking at her, his face trusting and open. She locked onto his eyes, hoping it would reassure him. Inch by agonizing inch he gave all his inhibitions to her, secure that they remained safe in her arms. This gift, Amy understood, was what he was really giving her tonight.

Her advance continued in that cycle of fits and starts: over his shoulders, along his biceps, across his chest, tracing his ribs and navel, then jumping down to his knees, up over his hip, walking across his firm buttocks, until Amy's hand rested on the soft skin along his pelvis, the edge of his pubic hair tickling her knuckles, the heat from his erection radiating on her thumb. Somehow, she knew she could go further and let him claw at the fabric one ultimate time. But she stopped. Not because she didn't want to - oh, how she did! - but she hesitated to take that final offering from him. She would let him decide.

When the clenching finally stopped, when Sheldon finally relaxed beside her, it was the short hem of her nightdress that allowed Sheldon's long arm to nudge the gown ever higher, and Amy's breath nudged along with it. "Is this okay?" he asked again.

"Oh, yes."

A long, low sound escaped her as Sheldon caressed those serviceable cotton panties. He audibly gulped.

"Amy?" he suddenly asked, his pupils larger. "Maybe - maybe it's time to take these off."

"Okay."

She reached for the edge of her nightgown and he stilled her hand. "I meant your underpants."

The blush felt uncomfortable on her face. "Oh. Oh, yes, of course."

Sheldon didn't move his hand. "Only if you're ready."

"I am."

It was an awkward shimmy on the bed. It occurred to Amy she probably should have sat up and removed them properly; after all, Sheldon had lifted his arm and rolled to give her space. But she hadn't wanted to leave the warmth of his body, the press of his length alongside her. She was not cold with him. At last, though, the underpants were kicked off the edge of the bed. Sheldon raised his eyebrows but didn't comment.

Her fluttering movements had somehow lowered the hem of the nightgown again, too, back to her knees. This time Sheldon didn't work to raise it; instead, he slipped his hand beneath it and stroked along her knees and then her thighs and hips. Between the nightdress and her skin, she felt the soft, gentle movement of his hands. Over her stomach, cupping her bottom, his movements were slow. Her body ached for more, she longed to spread her legs and direct him there. But she also never wanted his feathery admiration to end. The only soundtrack was the shallow, faster inhalations of their lungs and the rustle of the gown, sounding just as she imagined it would. He watched her, just as he had when she was touching him. Occasionally he would gulp or lick his lips, but he didn't speak or ask to see her. She recognized the pattern of his movements from earlier, the meandering way he learned her contours, from the outside in. This, too, was a way for him to ease himself into contact. She wondered if leaving her body obscured, for now at least, made it easier for him, too.

Somehow, the nightgown made it feel more intimate. If she had been naked, it would have been an overt act, even if Sheldon was the only man she ever wanted to do this. But, by sharing the air between cloth and skin with her, it was as though she had invited him into somewhere private, as though they could hide from the world together, there behind her gown.

Then his hand came to rest over her pelvis, freshly waxed, in the same spot she had stopped with him. He could have gone further - oh, how she would have welcomed it! - but she wouldn't ask that of him. Not tonight.

"I love you," she whispered.

"I love you, too."

Sheldon kissed her softly, untangling his hand and bringing it up to hold her face. "Amy?" he asked. "Do you want to leave the nightgown on? When we engage in the act of coitus?"

In all of her fantasies, Amy had always imagined them both naked for the culmination of their evening. And it hardly seemed fair that she would remain covered and Sheldon, dear Sheldon, had already been naked for so long. She shook her head. "No, I'll take it off."

"Are you sure? I want you to be comfortable."

She hoped she was able to convey all her gratitude and love with her soft smile. "I'll be comfortable with you. I - I want to feel your skin. But if you'd prefer not to, then -"

"I think - I know - I'm ready to feel your skin now, too," he interrupted.

Amy nodded. A few seconds of silence passed as Amy processed what had to come next, wondering which of them would make the move. Then Sheldon said, "Here, sit up."

When she did, it was Sheldon who pulled the nightgown up over her body and above her head, just as she hoped when she had imagined its removal. The fabric rushed past her ears with ease. When he lowered his arms, still holding her gown, Sheldon gulped at her, his eyes drifting lower.

With a quick glance down at her own naked body, Amy fought the urge to grab the nightgown back and cover herself. It was only fair after she'd ogled him earlier. She whispered, "So this is it. All of me."

"Before we -" he licked his lips as his eyes still settled somewhere south of her chin "- I want to tell you something."

Her heart thumped an extra beat. "Okay."

Sheldon looked up, watching her in the same beautiful way he had when she walked into the bedroom. "You said you made the nightgown to be special. And it's very pretty. I like it. But I want you to know, no matter how poor my upcoming performance may be, that you're special enough on your own. All of you."

Tears welled in her eyes as Sheldon smiled and threw the gown up in the air. Amy made a sound at his impulsive action, something between a gasp and giggle and hiccup. They both turned to watch the nightgown billow and open and then fall to the floor next to them in a slow arc. It seemed to happen in slow motion, the sailing and the settling. Instead of looking like a thing discarded, it looked so soft and fulfilled in flight, like it had been waiting its whole existence for that moment to unfurl. It had been formed and touched and warmed by love, finding its purpose here with them in this bed. For just a second, surely a trick of light and motion, Amy thought she saw a rosebud bloom.

As the nightgown rested beside them, Amy felt Sheldon's skin along hers and his soft murmur of love in her ear before she felt herself unfurling beneath him and around him and with him, blossoming with joy from the warmth of his touch.

THE END

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_**Thank you so much for reading both halves; I look forward to and thank you for your reviews in advance. Thank you again for the efforts of my dear friend and beta, Melissa. And, always, you can find me on Instagram [handle: aprilinparisfanfic] which is sometimes where inspiration strikes, such as for this story. I took a silly picture and it blossomed with words.**_


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